


Bellissimo

by BringtheKaos



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: And probably massive Italian errors, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical religious bias, Enemies to begrudging stalemate, I used Google translate I'm sorry, M/M, No animals were harmed in the making of this fic, Rampant historical inaccuracy, The obligatory "how they stopped fighting" fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringtheKaos/pseuds/BringtheKaos
Summary: A mind worm I just had to get out. I know everybody and their immortal brother has already done a Joe x Nicky meet cute, but is anyone complaining? No? Cool.Also, I apologize for any historical inaccuracies and errors in Italian language. I am neither immortal nor Italian. Correct me if you feel like, I had no beta. Die like Nicky amiright.Also, I've put translations in superscript (except where it is explained within text), because I know how annoying it is to scroll down to the end notes every time a bitch talks.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 19
Kudos: 162





	Bellissimo

**Author's Note:**

> A mind worm I just had to get out. I know everybody and their immortal brother has already done a Joe x Nicky meet cute, but is anyone complaining? No? Cool.
> 
> Also, I apologize for any historical inaccuracies and errors in Italian language. I am neither immortal nor Italian. Correct me if you feel like, I had no beta. Die like Nicky amiright.
> 
> Also, I've put translations in superscript (except where it is explained within text), because I know how annoying it is to scroll down to the end notes every time a bitch talks.

On the first day, they killed each other five times. On the second day, they matched it. On the third, Nicolo managed four while his enemy managed five again. On and on it went like this, blow for blow, gruesome death after gruesome death, until finally, they gave up.

On the seventh day, they rested. This fact does not go by unnoticed, and Nicolo briefly wonders if it is a divine joke, or some kind of sick irony.

The scarlet cross on his chest bears several punctures, its previously symbolic irrefutability marred with blood and holes. In fact, the cross can hardly be seen anymore, so drenched is it in equally crimson fabric.

The truce is fragile and tense—they’ve been sitting on opposite sides of a hastily and crudely built fire, shooting suspicious, blade-sharp glances at each other over the flames. Those moments after rising from the deep, dark, hollow-tree place that is death are incredibly jarring and muddled, so Nicolo can’t recall which of them gave up first; if he’d woken from death to find that his nemesis was not striking, or if he himself had failed to grasp for his longsword. His enemy is many things, but one to strike down an unarmed man is not among of them.

Oddly, the man is honorable, a fact that contradicts what Nicolo was led to believe about these heathens. He fights by the rules, and when Nicolo stumbled or lost his grip on the hilt, he paused to allow him to come to rights. This is not to say, however, that the man is not vicious—he is a precision killer, methodical to a fault with a strike that is hauntingly snakelike. He may follow the unspoken rules of combat, but he follows them to the gaps in Nicolo’s armor; to the throat, the elbow, the thigh. The places where, once it has started, blood does not stop.

At least... not for normal men.

Nicolo is trying not to think about his new... affliction. It makes his stomach turn and his mind go fuzzy to think about. Why, _why_ would his God do something like this to him? When the point of life is to live, live well, and eventually die and rejoin those he has lost in the kingdom of Heaven? Is it because he has been divinely tasked with something, here on Earth? And if that task is to eradicate the enemies of the church, then why did God also make the enemy unkillable? And what of his soul? Is it still with him? Or did it fly to Heaven upon that first death, and he is now some hollow shell of a man, soulless and destined for a Hell quite similar to life?

All of these questions he buries deep in his mind, behind the same locked doors he keeps the feeling of drowning in his own blood, the feeling of bones sliding back through torn flesh, the feeling of the world going dark and cold.

They had attempted to communicate several hours previous, but it quickly devolved into yelling incoherently at each other in two very different languages. Nicolo suspects that the man understands more Genoese than he is letting on, because he noted a flash of recognition in his chestnut eyes on more than one voluminous occasion. Whether he refused to respond to those words out of spite or lack of knowledge, Nicolo doesn’t know.

“Yusuf,” the heathen says gruffly, startling Nicolo from his thoughts. At first, Nicolo thinks the man is throwing more Arabic words at him, just to poke and prod at Nicolo’s ignorance, but then the man is slamming a lean, strong finger to his own chest. His eyes are alight with the fire between them, his expression stained with cautious optimism as he says again, “Yusuf al-Kaysani.”

Nicolo puzzles. There is power in a name, he knows, but what could this man, this enemy do with his name that he has not already done with his scimitar?

“Nicolo,” he says begrudgingly, picking at the polecats he has skewered over the fire and turning them to more evenly char the delicate underbelly. “Nicolo di Genova.”

The man, apparently Yusuf, nods in affirmation.

When Nicolo pulls the roasted polecats from the flames, he tentatively takes a half-step around the fire and offers one of them to his enemy. He keeps his other hand firmly on the hilt of his longsword, which he has yet to remove from his person, uneasy in the knowledge that he is likely about to lose a hand. He wonders vaguely if it will grow back, or if he will have to press the mangled flesh, muscle, and bone back together in a macabre sort of puzzle piece, and wait for the skin to melt back together.

Yusuf does not, however, take Nicolo’s hand, only the food, and mumbles a weak little “grazie.” thank you

“Quindi capisci,” you do understand he says in a monotone as he returns to the moderate safety of his side of the fire.

“Un po,” a little Yusuf says, eyeing the polecat hungrily and immediately taking a bite from the meaty breast. He chews for a moment, clearly unable to stop the look of sheer relief and enjoyment that crosses his features before he hardens, points at the polecat, and says “bene.” good

Nicolo has to stop himself from smiling at the praise, reminding himself absently that he is not supposed to get along or even converse cordially with this man.

Yusuf takes another bite, swallows, and points to his own chest again.

“Mercante,” he says. His pronunciation is wrong, emphasis on the wrong syllables, but Nicolo understands—he is a merchant... or he _was_ a merchant, before he became a merchant of death. It makes sense, then, that this man knows a little of Nicolo’s language—coin knows no nationality.

Nicolo finds himself feeling guilty for not being able to reciprocate the attempt at communication. He doesn’t know the word “priest” or “holy man” in Arabic, in fact the only things he’s really picked up as of yet are “yes,” “no,” and “please.” He thinks he can infer from the many battlefield confrontations with Yusuf that he might also know “die, filth.” Perhaps it wasn’t “filth.” Maybe “enemy,” or “Christian.” Regardless, none of it will help him here.

So, grimacing, he says, “sacerdote,” priest and points to his own chest.

The blank look that meets him says it all—Yusuf does not know this word. Nicolo sighs, follows the lines of the cross on his chest, and immediately knows he’s made a mistake.

Yusuf’s eyes narrow, and his lips go thin and vicious behind his beard, and Nicolo is suddenly aware that Yusuf thinks he means to say he is a professional soldier, a warrior, maybe even a mercenary. He thinks Nicolo is pointing to the armor, not the cross.

“No, no,” he says, waving his hands frantically before pressing them together in prayer.

“Ah,” Yusuf says, his face softening, and Nicolo very abruptly finds himself admiring Yusuf’s more delicate features—his long, dark hair curls like the licking flames, his skin is smooth and blemish-less, with a rich color like the bark of the cypress tree. And his eyes... eyes which Nicolo has seen marred in bloodshed and carnage, seen sparkle as life left him... they are somehow both terrifying and breathtaking, and Nicolo reminds himself that God made him too, in His image.

After they have had their fill of meat and water, Nicolo finds his eyelids growing heavy, his limbs weak, his mind fuzzy and dull. Despite being an eternal rest... death is surprisingly exhausting.

Trying not to be obvious about it, he leans from his rigid position to more of a reclined one, but maintains the meticulous leer he’s been aiming at Yusuf for the better part of a day. _I may have stopped killing you_ , it says, _but I do not trust you._

The answering glare needs no language to know it says the same.

Yusuf takes a leaf of something from the goatskin bag at his hip, something that looks like parchment. It is a rare thing for common folk to possess these days, the production of it still limited to the church. Nicolo does not know or care to know where or how the heathens make theirs, but Yusuf was a merchant, so he likely comes by any number of rarities in his work.

Yusuf then completely disregards Nicolo’s presence, and retrieves a stick of charcoal from his pack. He sets in on the paper, clearly angling himself so that Nicolo cannot see what he is doing, and for just a moment, Nicolo finds himself angry—angry that Yusuf dares to hide anything. _I will take it_ , he finds himself thinking, _either by mandate or by blade, I will take it._

 _“_ Cosa stai facendo,” what are you doing? he asks defensively. He’s not sure what Yusuf could do with paper and charcoal, but given the creative ways he found to turn Nicolo’s insides into _outside_ s, he does not intend to underestimate him.

Yusuf huffs, making a show of cradling his parchment closer, the movement very clear; ‘leave me be, invader.’

Nicolo feels an exhaustion-fueled rage bubble up inside of him—‘haven’t you learned anything yet, heathen? What you have is not yours. It will belong to Genova, one way or another.’

He launches to his feet, not caring if the abruptness earns him one more death. He will mark them down somewhere, he thinks, lest he forget how many times God has breathed life back into him... and paper would be as good a medium as any.

In a single stride, he is in Yusuf’s space, snatching the papers from his surprised enemy and ignoring the snarled Arabic insults spat at him as he retreats with the papers...

And finds himself staring at his own eyes, his own face, his own hands... dozens of drawings, in miraculous, spectacular detail—from the dry, cracked knuckles to his pronounced Adam’s apple, to the tiny mole on his cheek. It’s all there.

Nicolo loses his breath, stuttering out a muted “che cosa...” what...

Yusuf had only just started, there is no way he managed all of these illustrations... pages upon pages of them, a startling focus on Nicolo’s eyes and hands taking a few full pages of their own, in just the last few minutes.

“Sogni...” dreams he breathes, shuffling through to find an image of himself completely nude and he knows he blushes furiously.

“I sogni,” dreams he declares, completely breathless now as he looks up at Yusuf, hopefully with an expression that is entreating and wildly curious.

He’d thought that the dreams were part of his mandate to take up the sword, to join the crusades—that God had been providing him with images of his enemy, providing him with the fuel needed to light the righteous fire within him.

But now... now it is clear his enemy had also seen him. And if it wasn’t for the purpose of defeating one another, as clearly they cannot... then... _why?!_

The blank, wide-eyed stare Yusuf gives him is already recognizable; _‘I do not know that word, help me.’_

Manic and excited, Nicolo points to his own temple, closes his eyes, and makes an obnoxious pantomime of sleeping, complete with fake snoring. Yusuf laughs out loud; a boisterous, jolly thing, and Nicolo feels himself react to it the way he does to chirping birds, ocean waves, and family hugs. There is something so comfortable about laughter, something so relaxed and familiar, and Nicolo is immediately disarmed by it.

Yusuf pokes his own temple and asks “sogni?”

“Si, sogni, il sonno, si,” yes, dreams, slumber, yes he says, knowing Yusuf now understands.

Yusuf nods, allowing his hand to slap back down to his thigh. “Si. Sogni di... di Nicolo.” Yes. Dreams of... of Nicolo

Nicolo smiles despite himself, even though he’s just gained another question for his growing list. Despite the uncertainty, he is comforted to know that this stranger is experiencing the same things as him. That he is not alone.

“Io sono lo stesso,” I am the same he says, looking back down at the drawings and feeling his heart quicken. “Sogni di Yusuf.” dreams of Yusuf

He studies the line work, the shading, the attention to detail. He analyzes the page that is comprised of just hands, and finds himself cursing the holy mosaics of the church, of holy men depicting holy scenes. They have nothing on the definition in Yusuf’s careful strokes—he has captured the thin, raised bones in the back of the hand, each and every line in the palm, even the way blood fills the cracks of the knuckles when it drips from blade to pommel. His work is nearly flawless, and makes Nicolo’s heart quicken once more.

“Bellisimo,” beautiful he breathes, hardly aware that he has spoken at all.

“Si,” Yusuf says, reaching out and gently taking the drawings back. Nicolo scoffs at the man’s pride, but quickly loses the mirth as he looks up, finding himself within a foot of Yusuf.

They have never been this close without killing one another.

Yusuf grunts something in Arabic, turning his back and plopping down into his indentation in the sand.

Nicolo does the same, but the weight of his questions is heavy, and the drain on his body is immense. His eyelids are sluggish, and the crackle of the fire, the gentle _scritch scritch_ of the Arab’s charcoal rings like a soothing lullaby.

He knows he shouldn’t, knows he will likely wake to find a scimitar lodged in his ribs. _But what does it matter_ , he thinks sadly, allowing himself to topple over into the soft, cooling sand, _I will just wake up again._

_***_

He does not wake to a scimitar in his ribs, but he does wake to the slicing _thud_ of it colliding with _something._ He startles awake, scrambling backwards and fighting with his hazy, sleep-fogged mind and unfocused eyes.

The image that meets him is of a sunlit Yusuf in a battle stance, but not facing Nicolo’s prone form. No, his back is to Nicolo, and he is spitting a litany of words that Nicolo does not understand.

At the Arab’s feet is an angry, hissing viper, coiling in on itself and watching the scimitar with intense black eyes. Its mouth hangs open, a silent threat that bares the long, dripping proof of its deadliness.

It was likely drawn to the warmth of the smoldering fire, in the hopes of a meal, and found only predators. Now it is trapped, back to the too-hot ashes, its only escape through two massive enemies.

Yusuf says something else in Arabic, and raises his scimitar.

In an instant, Nicolo finds himself sympathetic of the poor beast—it came under pretense, only hoping to survive. It followed its instincts to the warmth, and now must pay the ultimate price.

_The ultimate price..._

“No!” he cries, launching in front of Yusuf to grab the serpent and feeling those two deadly weapons sink deep into the meat of his wrist. It hurts, but what is worse is the feeling of the venom pumping into his veins.

“Dio santo!” Holy God he curses, rising to his feet as he already notes dying flesh and viscera around the bite, a rapidly beating heart, and a stomach about to turn.

He ignores it all, pushing to his feet and stumbling away from the campsite, away from a raised scimitar and chant of “perché?!” why He tosses the snake back into the sand a relatively safe distance from their campsite, and spins to return to it.

Vertigo hits him with the force of a runaway stallion, and he collapses to the sand, retching violently.

It is a strange feeling—he can tell his body is attempting to heal, but he can also note the progress of the venom as his traitorous heart pumps it ever more devastatingly deeper into his body. He blacks out, and doesn’t know when he stops breathing.

When he opens his eyes, he is lying back at their little campsite, the barely-smoking embers of the evening’s fire dying in front of him. His head is pounding, and his stomach still feels like it is burdened by a satchel of rocks.

“Idiota,” idiot comes the muffled, faraway sound of Yusuf’s voice, and Nicolo’s head pounds at the timbre of it. He groans, attempting to sit up, feeling himself grow violently nauseous, and falls back down with a whimper.

“Perché?” Yusuf asks again, shock evident in his voice.

Nicolo sighs, already feeling the headache lessen, the nausea dissipate. It wasn’t pleasant, but he would do it again.

He places a hand over his own heart, and says “vivere.” live He points off in the direction of the now long-gone snake, and continues, “morire,” die dulling the sentiment down to a single word in the hopes that Yusuf understands. By the way his expression softens and his posture relaxes, he understands. He nods, grinning bitterly. Nicolo’s heart does something, and he isn’t sure it’s the venom.

“Bellissimo,” Yusuf says, pulling out his parchment and beginning to draw.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on Tumblr](https://mionemicoamato.tumblr.com/). Follow for premium Old Guard shitposts and extremely lukewarm takes.


End file.
